


Three Bullets

by The_Midget



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Gangs, Gen, Hospitalization, Past Rape/Non-con, Shooting, The LSPD is as helpful as you'd expect, White Supremacist group, Whodunnit? - Freeform, movie industry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-05-26 10:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14998805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Midget/pseuds/The_Midget
Summary: After Michael is shot in the street, his friends and family can all agree that it was an act of retaliation. However, none of them can agree on who pulled the trigger.





	1. Shots

“The tip comes to twenty percent, sir,” the waiter sighed.

  
Michael frowned at the bill before him. It was only twenty percent, but Amanda knew that he wasn’t the greatest mathematician. He dragged a hand through his hair, biting his lower lip in concentration. Still struggling, he counted on his fingers like a child. Failing, he growled in frustration.

  
“Honey, you got a pen?” Michael asked, flipping the paper bill over.

  
This almost always happened when they went out to eat. He found it easier to visualise the math rather than figure it out in his head. Sighing, Amanda pulled out a pen from her handbag and handed it to him across the table. It would probably be easier to use a calculator. The last time she suggested that, Michael refused and said he could figure it out himself. Even if it did take him ten minutes.

  
She gave an apologetic glance up at the waiter towering over Michael with his hand on his hip. There were other customers to serve after all. Yet he had been an asshole throughout the service. Amanda did not appreciate being told to hurry up with choosing what she wanted to eat. The faux posh voice was grating as well. It was as if he was trying to mimic an English accent, but it sounded like a terrible, annoying impression.

  
The pen scratched as Michael scribbled down the numbers of the bill, pausing every now and then. If only he used a calculator. The tip would have been figured out by now. Amanda slyly rolled her eyes before looking down at her phone in her lap, tapping the calculator icon.

  
A slamming of the pen onto the table made her flinch. She jerked her head up, noticing Michael giving the waiter a smug smirk. He presented the money in a fan formation, as if proving to the waiter that he had figured the total bill correctly. With the tip calculated, Amanda shoved her phone back into her bag.

  
Sighing impatiently, he snatched the bills from Michael’s hand. Without so much as a ‘have a nice day’, or even a word of thanks for that matter, the waiter marched away.

  
“Fuck, I hate math,” Michael complained, getting up to leave.

  
“Is that why you threw a chair at your math teacher in high school?” Amanda asked him, eyebrow raised as she stood from the table. “I’m surprised you didn’t hurl a chair at that waiter because you _hate math_.”

  
“Hey, Mr Fielding was a fucking prick. Humiliated me in front of the class.”

  
A small smile tugged at her lips. She took a hold of his arm and allowed herself to by lead away by him. “Well...the lunch was really nice, Michael. Do you have to go back to the studio or have you finished for the day?”

  
“Nah, I gotta get back,” he replied. “Got an afternoon shoot for Deep Inside to oversee.”

  
She nodded as they walked arm in arm out of the restaurant. Still, the lunch was a nice surprise. It was another hour or so together without the kids. A bit of time to enjoy each other’s company.

  
As Amanda thought about it, she realised that there was something that something wasn’t right. Michael was relatively quiet at the lunch. Like something was bothering him. Normally he would be telling her all about his morning at the studio like an over-excited kid. Amanda would be lucky to get a word in when Michael was his happy self. If he was, she would have known about half the plot of Deep Inside by now.

  
“Have you spoken to Mr Richards?” Amanda questioned, her feet coming to a stop. “About...him at all? Jerry? That you don’t want him anywhere near you after...y’know...”

  
Michael paled. He couldn’t look her in the eye, taking to staring at his shoes instead. Amanda wanted to vomit every time she thought of what he went through, but she had to make sure the problem was under some sort of control. The last thing she wanted to hear was that Jerry White had threatened her husband or worse. Or that Michael had been fired for attacking him.

  
They had spoken about it this morning. It was Amanda’s idea for him to ask Solomon to keep that piece of shit Jerry White as far away from Michael as possible. She had always thought that he was a shady director. He never had a wife or a long term girlfriend. One night stands didn’t count.

  
“Uh, no...” Michael said uneasily. “No, not yet. But I will when I go back, I promise. I don’t want that fucker around either.”

  
“Make sure you do. Since you haven’t decided to report it in to the police.”

  
She didn’t receive an answer. Michael tried to pretend that he was fine, but Amanda could see the pain behind the the plastic smiles. She hoped that things would get better. After three months, it felt as if there hadn’t been any progress. A small gesture of comfort, she squeezed his arm gently. She would walk into Solomon’s office beside him if she had to. As stubborn as ever, Michael said he would do it himself. Although, Amanda wasn’t sure if he was able to.

  
With a deep inhale, she cast her face down to the pavement, watching the slabs pass below her feet as she walked. The issue had not disappeared as they hoped it would. Perhaps it was foolish to believe it would evaporate after a month or two. Why did that -

  
_Bang!_

  
Amanda’s heart skipped a beat. She felt a weight fall against her and a harsh metallic scent burned at her nose. Her head whipped side to side. Where the fuck was that fired from?

  
_Bang!_

  
Like spooked birds, the diners scattered in all directions, screaming. Nobody seemed to be carrying a weapon. The shots didn’t sound as though they came from the restaurant. More likely from across the street. Who the hell was shooting?

  
_Bang!_

  
Gathering her wits somewhat, Amanda looked down. Her eyes widened when she saw Michael slumping to the floor. He let out a wheezed groan. His white shirt was stained red and his hand was shaking over his chest. Amanda shrieked, realising that Michael had been shot.

  
She counted three gunshot wounds. Two were in his lower abdomen. The third was in his chest, covered by his hand. Amanda set him down on the ground, screaming for help. Her heart sank as she watched most of the people flee the scene, expecting more shots. Others at least stayed, even though they kept their distance.

  
Michael groaned as he pressed his hand against his chest wound. He panted for oxygen, short breaths laboured like he was suffocating. The occasional weak cough broke it. Usually after he gulped in too much air.

  
“Michael!?” Amanda screeched at him. “Michael!? Look at me! Look at me! Somebody call an ambulance!”

  
He flicked his eyes up to her, glassy with pain. But he wasn’t looking at her. It was as if he was staring up at something non-existent. His hand was shaking over his chest wound, blood running between his fingers. With more force than necessary, Amanda pressed her hand on top of his. There was no way he could slow the bleeding on his own.

  
Amanda briefly looked around her, hoping for someone to help her. She wanted a doctor to come out of nowhere, like in those movies Michael loved. Instead, the people surrounding them still didn't approach. Some held their phones to their ears. They spoke of a man shot in the street outside a Vinewood restaurant who needed medical attention.

  
“F-Fucking...” Michael trailed off, grimacing. Amanda suddenly glanced down, rubbing circles in his hand with her thumb. “Who fucking shot me?”

  
Blinking back tears, Amanda shook her head. “I don’t know, darling.”

  
Michael bit down on his lower lip, suppressing a groan. “God...lucky asshole. Got three fuckin’ bullets in me.”

  
There were sirens wailing behind her already. It had to have been less than two minutes after the initial shot. Thank God the emergency response in LS was rapid. Amanda glanced over her shoulder, expecting an ambulance to come speeding around the corner. There were bright flashing red and blue lights, but there was no medical van in sight. The lights were sat on top of two black and white police cars, skidding to a stop barely ten metres away.

  
Turning her attention back to Michael, she noticed that he was beginning to shut his eyes. Amanda shook his shoulder, making him flutter them open again. The last thing he can do was slip into unconsciousness. It could too literally be the last thing he does.

  
“Just stay awake,” Amanda said, hand still gripping his shoulder like a vice. “Michael, just stay with me. The paramedics will be here soon, but stay with me. D-Don’t...don’t go to sleep. Please just...hang on until help arrives, yeah?”

  
Michael gave a light groan in response, but he kept his eyes open. His shirt was practically red by now from the blood. It began to soak into his jacket, showing up as darker patches against the dark blue fabric. His breathing was harsh and hurried. It was as if he had ran a marathon. Amanda pressed her fingers to the base of his neck. The greyed out skin was icy to her touch. Beneath her shaking fingertips was the distant, rapid thud of the weak heartbeat.

  
Where the hell was this ambulance? The police officers barked out orders that the small crowd step back. They were met with whines and complaints, mostly that the bystanders could no longer see what was happening. Amongst the grumbles, a shrill voice argued that she no longer had a good angle for a photo to put on her social media. Amanda wanted to slap that shallow bitch herself, only to become distracted by Michael’s wheezing.

  
“A-am...” Michael croaked before a choked cough cut him off. He cleared his throat, light flecks of blood spattering Amanda’s face. “A-am I...gonna die?”

  
“No, you’re not gonna die, Michael,” Amanda replied, brushing his cheek. “You are not going to die. The ambulance isn’t too far away. Y-you’ll be fine, I swear.”

  
She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince: Michael or herself. Amanda knew she had to remain calm for his sake, but she had to convince herself that he wasn’t going to die in the street. Things were far from okay, given the amount of blood he had already lost. She had to cling to hope. The hope that the ambulance was going to show up any second now.

  
Another set of sirens were rapidly getting louder behind her. That had to be the ambulance. It can’t be more cops. Michael fought to keep them open, but was losing strength rapidly. His eyelids were flickering, slowly closing. Amanda nudged him, trying to keep him awake if only for a few extra seconds.

  
“No, no...” she started. “No, don’t close those eyes. Come on...stay awake, babe, the ambulance is here.”

  
“’Manda...I can’t...” Michael forced out between heavy breaths. “I can’t.”

  
“You can. Please, just hold on. Don’t close your eyes, Michael.”

  
Amanda felt her heart sink as Michael stared up at her through half-lidded eyes. He shook as if he was cold, his hand unable to press down on his chest wound much longer. She desperately wanted to help him and take the pain away, but had no idea how.

  
Her hand gripped Michael’s as he finally shut his eyes, his body going limp. Amanda choked back a sob, her fingers still wrapped firmly around his hand. She gently shook his shoulder again.

  
“M-Michael? Michael, wake up. Wake up! Come on, baby, wake up!”

  
A weight settled on her shoulder, trying to pull her back. Yet she clung to Michael’s body in the vain hope that he would suddenly snap his eyes open. She wrapped her arms around him, holding onto him like a child with a doll. A deep voice behind her demanded that she step back. Let the paramedics do their job. But Amanda clung on tighter, refusing to let go.

  
The hand was soon successful in pulling her away. She let herself fall into the arms of a police officer, who pulled her further back away from her husband. Three paramedics swarmed around Michael, their hands splayed across his body. Their voices intertwined, fast and sincere. What they were saying, Amanda didn’t know. She could make out single words every now and then. Shock. Cavity. Oxygen. Emergency. Was that good or bad?

  
With swift efficiency, the paramedics heaved Michael onto a stretcher, strapping him down. As they hurried past, Amanda could barely see him. A large blue brace was around Michael’s neck like a giant collar. His face was concealed by a clear mask, a strap over his forehead to keep his head still. Amanda could only watch as the paramedics rushed the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed shut and the van drove away at high speed, sirens wailing.

  
The flashing lights fading into the horizon, she felt tears welling up behind her eyes. Her stifled sniffs were drowned out by the droning sirens of the police cars still parked outside the restaurant. Amanda’s stomach knotted, her head swimming. Legs wobbling, they gave out beneath her, so she sat on the curb. Her eyes were drawn to the crimson puddle on the pavement beside her. The longer Amanda stared at it, the more she wanted to be sick. That was a lot of blood Michael had lost. She was guessing at least two litres, maybe three, had pooled on the concrete.

  
She stared down at herself, covered in Michael's blood. If she forced herself to vomit there and then, she could. No water around to wash her hands, Amanda instead wiped them on her jeans. That didn't help much. Her hands were still stained red and the iron stench clinged to her skin.

  
“Excuse me, ma’am?”

  
The low voice made her jump. Wide eyed, Amanda turned around. She faced a bald police officer crouching down behind her, eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

  
“I want to ask you some questions.”


	2. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I should have thanked you guys for checking out my fic in the first chapter - I forgot to add a chapter note. I'm not rude, I'm just an idiot who barely knows where the on switch for a computer is, let alone "put notes here".
> 
> Thanks for sticking with my fic and thanks for checking it out. As usual for me, I am (un)fashionably late to the GTA party.
> 
> *Edits* One or two minor things in this chapter. Nothing major.

They say that silence is golden. In a hospital room, the silence was unnerving. Nothing was happening, nothing was changing. It was a unique quiet like a perfume. There was the overall silence as the base. Listening closer, Amanda could hear the metallic breathing of the ventilator. Almost overpowering everything were the rhythmic, steady beeps of the heart monitor.

She yawned, trying not to shut her eyes and fall asleep in the chair. Hospital seats were never overly comfortable. After God knows how many hours in police interviews, recounting what she witnessed, and waiting around for news, this seat was the next best thing to a bed. Briefly glancing up at the window, she saw a black sky and lights in buildings like yellow stars. What the time was, she didn’t know. Amanda didn’t want to know how long she had waited for Michael to come out of surgery. At least she had time to go home to wash and change. Despite that, the smell of blood still stung her nose.

As she had done all day, Amanda found herself waiting for something. Although she wasn’t sure what she was waiting for. She stared at Michael, surrounded by tubes and wires, half expecting him to suddenly wake up. The longer Amanda looked at him, the more she wanted to cry. All the machinery told her how weak he was. One was breathing for him. Yet she still waited for that miracle to happen.

Realistically, it wasn’t going to. Not yet, if Amanda was going to be optimistic. The surgery to remove the bullets had been risky, since Michael was already low on blood by the time he arrived in the operating theatre. He was lucky to pull through. Even luckier was that he didn’t have any exit wounds that needed medical attention. Amanda supposed that she should feel relieved. It could have been much worse.

However, the damage had already been done. Her heart had sank when the doctors explained to her that the blood loss meant that there wasn’t enough oxygen in Michael’s body, potentially causing damage to his organs. They had told her very simply that his brain had shut itself off to recover. The condition was given a name, but Amanda had long since forgotten it.

With a shaking hand, she intertwined her fingers with Michael’s and squeezed gently. She turned her focus to the tube that went down his throat. Amanda couldn’t help but think how stereotypical that one tube was for coma patients, particularly in the movies. It was a bit smaller than she expected and was taped to Michael’s face. No fancy braces or the like.

Before the tears could fall, the doors behind her swung open. Amanda whipped her head around, half expecting a nurse or doctor to come rushing in. God, she didn’t know how much more bad news she could take.

Seeing Jimmy stood in the doorway, she breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God that it wasn’t a doctor.

“M-M-Mom?” he asked shakily. “Mom! I got your text and I would’ve got here earlier, but the boss wanted the website done today. I’m sorry I couldn’t come home earlier.”

Amanda sniffled before giving a heavy sigh, looking back down at the bed. She had forgotten that she had text the kids, telling them that their father was in the hospital. Her memory was failing her. She couldn’t remember what she had said in the police witness interview earlier.

“It’s okay, Jimmy,” she sighed. “You’re here now. You didn’t miss much anyway. Where’s your sister?”

“Tracey said she’s still assignments to do. She says she’ll visit tomorrow.”

Amanda nodded in understanding. As much as she wanted Tracey here too, she knew that the college assignments came first. She still had Jimmy at home for company.

“B-but how’s Dad doing?” Jimmy asked. “Is he, like, okay?”

“He survived the shooting...” she said, trying to find the next words to come out of her mouth. “But he lost a lot of blood. There’s not enough oxygen or something in his body. He’s comatose.”

Jimmy’s sneakers shuffled softly against the floor, slowly getting closer. He came to a stop beside his mother’s chair by the bed, staring down at his father lying there completely still. Amanda never removed her attention from her husband, her hand holding Michael’s. He was almost as white as the hospital sheets.

“But he’s okay otherwise, right?” Jimmy questioned, leaning over the bed.

“I don’t...” Amanda stopped herself from saying any more. “I-I hope so, Jimmy. Let’s just hope he’ll wake up soon, hm?”

“H-He’ll be okay. Dad’s tough, so he’ll pull through. He’s made it through everything else. Like the last time he got shot.”

That made Amanda smile a little. Michael had been shot in the past in North Yankton and pulled through that pretty well. It had left him bedbound for a couple of days, but he was fine. She was surprised that Jimmy could remember that. At the most, he would’ve been about six years old. Although, he probably remembered Tracey explaining to him what a gunshot wound was to freak him out rather than his father in bed with a bandaged leg.

Except that injury was a flesh wound in comparison. That was different to three shots in his torso, one barely missing his heart. A centimetre to the left and he would be dead already. That wound all those years ago didn’t send him into a coma and Michael didn’t need a blood transfusion to survive.

For a while, neither of them said anything. Amanda found herself listening to the repetitive sounds of the beeping heart monitor and hissing ventilator. Monotonous background sounds that were slowly sending her to sleep.

“But who wants Dad dead?” Jimmy asked flatly. “Do you know who pulled the trigger?”

She shook her head. It had been a question on her mind since the shots were fired. Who wanted Michael dead now? He had said that all those who wanted him gone were gone themselves. He was safe. _They_ were safe.

“I don’t know, Jimmy,” Amanda admitted. “But we got the police looking into that. So, how was your day at work?”

“Oh, it was okay. Even though I was under pressure to get this website online by tonight. The boss said it was great and that NowPic is gonna be huge. Bigger than LifeInvader. And I helped to make it a reality.”

Amanda forced a smile for him. Finally, Jimmy had an achievement that he could be proud of. She patted his arm with her free hand, though her joy for him soon disappeared as she turned her attention back to Michael. If he were conscious, no doubt he would be happy for Jimmy too. Maybe they could have planned to go out and celebrate. Either go out for a drink or stay in and order Jimmy’s favourite takeout.

Yawning again, she realised how tired she was. It was probably nearing midnight by now, when most people should be in bed. She heard Jimmy give a sigh beside her.

“Mom? I think you need to go home. Get some rest.”

She glared over at Jimmy, offended by his suggestion. “I am not leaving your father,” she said defiantly.

“Mom, you’re tired. Go home and get some rest. Dad’ll still be here tomorrow.”

A part of her wanted to say _but what if he’s not?_  What if he passed away in the middle of the night, with no one around? She couldn’t leave him on his own to die, unconscious or not.

At the same time, Jimmy was right. Amanda was exhausted and had been fighting against nodding off to sleep. Although, she did wonder how she could sleep. If she was tired enough, she supposed that she wouldn’t be up all night. Besides, a comfortable bed sounded nice. Or any large, flat surface that was deemed comfortable enough. The floor was starting to seem like a good candidate.

“You’re right, Jimmy,” Amanda sighed. “I could do with some rest.”

***

A heavy knocking on the door disturbed Amanda from her sleep. As soon as Jimmy had driven her home, she crashed out on the couch. It happened to be the nearest comfortable surface. The stairs seemed like too much effort.

Whoever at the door was persistent. The knocking continued, so she sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Through her blurry vision, she read the time on the radio as half seven in the morning. Who the hell would be visiting at this time? Any time before nine in the morning was unsociable. Her still half-asleep mind could only come up with one answer.

“Oh, fuck off, Trevor!” Amanda yelled, throwing the blanket off herself and getting up from the couch. “It’s early in the fucking morning! People are trying to sleep in here!”

Still, the knocking continued. Didn’t he know when to give up? Then again, Trevor could be trying to spite her by being a pest. Annoyed, Amanda marched toward the door. Most normal people would just visit their friend in hospital, rather than be a nuisance to their family.

“Seriously, Trevor! Just fuck...”

Opening the door, she cut herself off. It was not Trevor standing there. Instead, she was met by two police officers, one older and one younger. Amanda’s jaw dropped. Oh God, she just told these cops to fuck off. She wasn’t going to get charged now, was she? Over something stupid.

“Mrs De Santa?” the older of two said, taking his hat off. “May we come in? We have made some leads and would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Uh...yeah, sure,” she stammered, stepping aside. “Yeah, come on in. Look, sorry about that. I thought you were someone else.”

“It’s fine, ma’am.”

The two policemen made their way past her, heading into the living room. Amanda gave a heavy sigh as she shut the door. She wanted a shower and coffee before facing more questioning. Particularly since she was only interviewed yesterday. If it had been up to her, she would have visited Michael in the hospital first. Just to make sure he was still okay.  
Unfortunately, she had no choice and had to put up with it. The policemen had sat down on the couch, having pushed aside the blanket she was wrapped up in.

“Can I get you anything?” Amanda asked, putting on a hospitable smile. “Water? Coffee?”

“No thanks, ma’am,” the older officer, sat closest to her, said politely. His younger colleague echoed him.

Might as well get on with it. Amanda sat down in the armchair, rubbing the remaining sleep out of her eyes. The older officer had pulled out a notebook that was now open on his lap. Tilting her head slightly, Amanda saw that his badge named him as ‘Timpson’. She assumed that he was the officer in charge of this case.

Timpson flipped through a few pages, all covered in scribbled handwriting. As messy as it was, Amanda could read the names dotted about the pages. She was guessing that the skipped pages were from a studio interview, given how many times she spotted ‘Mr Richards’ or ’Solomon’ written down in blue ink. Her eyebrows raised at the word ‘director’ in all capitals and underlined several times.

“We have reason to suspect that whoever pulled the trigger was some kind of hitman with the aim of murdering your husband,” Timpson explained. “Eyewitness accounts show that three shots were fired and Michael was wounded with three bullets. This wasn’t a random shooting, so we can rule out the generic madman theory.”

Amanda nodded slowly, her mind trying to understand what had been said. She licked her dry lips. So Michael was targeted. Three shots sounded like an aim to kill. He wasn’t supposed to survive.

“What about the type of gun used?” Amanda asked, voice shaking. “Might that get any more leads?”

“The bullets showed that the gun was a nine millimeter handgun. It doesn’t give us anything to build on. It’s the most common weapon in the state.”

“Can’t you trace anything from the bullets? Make? Model?”

The younger officer gave an irritated sigh, shooting her a glare. “Ma’am, we cannot waste time and resources searching thousands of guns in the state.”

Either that officer got up on the wrong side of the bed or he had forgotten his morning coffee. That was an innocent enough question as far as Amanda was concerned. Thankfully, him being the junior, it meant she wouldn’t have to deal with him too much. If he was looking for promotion, maybe he should change his attitude first.

“What Officer Percival is trying to say is that sorting through that many weapons will take up too much time and we all want the shooter to be caught as soon as possible,” Timpson said, voice calm and flat. “With this case, we want to gather suspects first.”

The younger officer, Percival, shot a glare over to Timpson. He quickly dropped it to turn his attention to the notebook in his hand. It was emptier than Timpson’s, devoid of detailed notes. There was the odd word or name, but nothing more.

“We want to ask you about any feuds your husband may have had with anyone recently,” Timpson added. “Do you know if he has fallen out with anyone? Arguments that may have gotten out of control?”

There it was. The million dollar question. Who had Michael pissed off? As far as Amanda was aware, the people who wanted him dead before were dead themselves. Not that she would say that to the police officers sat before her. No, that would lead to more problems. She wanted the police to help Michael, for once, and not have him as a suspect.

Her mind unable to come up with anything, she shook her head. It didn’t make sense. Who the hell pulled that trigger yesterday? Could have been a disgruntled actor as far as Amanda was aware of. It could have been as simple as Michael not giving someone a role they really wanted. They get pissed off and shoot him in retaliation. Some of these Vinewood divas liked to throw tantrums when they didn't get what they thought they deserved. It wouldn't be the first time an actor shot someone for that.

Although, three times seemed too excessive.

“No one you can think of?” the officer asked, eyebrow raised. “We interviewed Solomon Richards yesterday to scope out any potential feuds in your husband’s workplace. He said that Michael had told him he wanted to speak to him. About a director. Know anything about that?”

Amanda blinked. That didn’t make sense. “Michael told me yesterday that he hadn’t spoken to Mr Richards,” she stated. “He said he was _going_ to.”

“Looks like Michael wasn’t straight with you,” Percival retorted. “He had told his boss something...”

“...Michael made an arrangement at a later time that day to discuss this director with Mr Richards,” Timpson interrupted him. “Mr Richards claimed that he was too busy that morning, but had arranged for a discussion that afternoon.”

She chewed her lower lip, trying to make sense of it all. What Michael probably meant was that he hadn’t spoken about the problem. That was mostly true. Although she wished he did admit that the studio was too busy to discuss his problems that morning. Amanda understood that there were deadlines to meet.

“As Michael’s wife, are you aware of which director he does not get along with?”

Her mouth suddenly felt dry. However, Amanda nodded to the question. Looking up, she saw that both officers were staring at her, pens connected to notepads. She licked her dry lips before explaining.

“Michael wanted to talk to Mr Richards about Jerry White,” Amanda sighed. “The one who directed that weird mind...mad science-y movie that won a Frankie.”

“Good movie,” Percival muttered as he took the name. “ _The Internal Mind_.”

“Okay, but is there any reason to why Michael and Mr White don’t get along?” Timpson questioned. “I understand how prestigious awards can cause arguments between directors, actors, executives, producers and the like.”

Amanda flicked her eyes down at the floor, wishing it would suddenly open up and swallow her. She wrung her hands as her leg bounced aimlessly. Inhaling deep, she prepared herself before staring up at the officers. She gulped down the rising bile in her throat before speaking.

“It’s not about awards,” Amanda started, scratching the back of her head. "Nothing like that."

"What is it like?" Percival questioned.

She wanted to say it. Maybe Michael could get some help if the police knew. “Michael...he err..." Amanda didn't quite know how to word it. Taking a pause, she decided to just say it. "...he was assaulted. By White.”

Both officers glanced at each other and scribbled down the notes. Percival remained silent, probably because he didn’t know what to say. Amanda didn’t want to believe the words that she had blurted out. She had taken to staring at the floor again, unable to face the officers’ reactions.

It was Timpson who broke the silence first. He began with a sound of disbelief as he exhaled. After struggling to get the words out, he was finally able to put together a coherent sentence.

“Mrs De Santa...I’ll have to ask you to elaborate,” he said. “How do you mean assaulted?”

A lump began to grow in her throat. Pressing her lips together, Amanda looked around the room. She noted the nearly empty bottle of scotch on the table in front of her. The glass beside it still held a bit of the golden liquid, left as it was. Michael had a drink before he left for the studio the day prior. As he did every morning for the past three months.

“Sexual assault,” Amanda confirmed. The words felt like acid on her tongue.

“Okay...” Timpson started calmly. “This was not reported. There isn’t anything like this in the file history. Where and when did this happen?”

“After the Frankies party. About three months ago. Michael was taken to White’s house and...that's where it happened.”

As Timpson noted down what Amanda said, Percival looked up. His dark eyes were narrowed at her as he pressed his lips in thought. He pushed his notebook off his lap.

“A party? I assume alcohol was involved?” Percival asked, eyebrow raised. “Michael could have been drunk, not realised what he was doing. Woke up next morning and regretted it.”

“What?” Amanda gasped, horrified by what he was implying. Her mouth dropped, stammering to get her next words out. Yes, Michael did have a few drinks that night. Who didn’t? “Are you blaming Michael for...for _that_? You think he _wanted_ it?”

“All I’m saying is Michael could be falsely crying rape. To hide an affair. I find it hard to believe that Michael was unable to defend himself from a man at least ten years his senior and at least twenty pounds lighter than him.”

“Michael couldn’t defend himself because his drink had been fucking spiked with tranquiliser!”

Her eyes widened at what she just said. She rubbed her hand over her face and groaned. It wasn’t Michael’s fault that White had drugged him. Amanda assumed that it was White. From what she had been told, he was the last person Michael had been speaking to before he turned his back on his drink.

She gave a defeated sigh, knowing what was about to be asked. “He passed out after one drink and came round naked in a strange bed with White sleeping next to him. That was what Michael told me.”

Timpson thankfully spoke up first, interrupting whatever Percival was about to say. He put down his pen and notepad onto the couch arm beside him.

“Mrs De Santa, this is a very serious allegation,” he said, voice low, but smooth. “For anything to be put into investigation, there has to be evidence that Mr White is the perpetrator.”

“There is evidence,” Amanda argued. “I made Michael get a kit done at the hospital. Bloods, urine, swabs. The lot.”

“And where was it made? How long between the alleged attack and the kit?”

“Mount Zonah. Had to have been less than twelve hours in between. The evidence should still be there.”

She braced herself for the inevitable question. Why was it not reported? To Amanda, that was an invasion of privacy. She was not at liberty to give a reason, especially since Michael was currently unable to do it himself. He had his own reasons for not reporting the incident, despite Amanda having tried to get him to change his mind.

Yet the question never came. Timpson scribbled down the notes on his pad. As soon as he was done, both officers stood up, Percival returning his hat to his head. Amanda felt her muscles relax and she let out a relieved sigh. No question. Thank God.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs De Santa,” Timpson said, rummaging in his pocket and handing her a small card. “The LSPD will look into the allegation, but I will transfer it to a more specialised team. Mr White appears to have a good alibi. Trying to keep his career.”

Amanda gave a small smile and a nod. The officer was right. White had too much to lose if Michael said anything. Silencing him would keep his career as a respected director safe.

Thanking them for their efforts on the case, she let the two of them out of the house. Timpson gave her a nod in acknowledgement. The other simply walked past her. Arrogant asshole. Amanda shut the door behind them, turning around to go back into the house. Preferably for a drink of something strong to wash out the acid taste in her mouth. Or maybe throw up.

She lingered behind the door for a moment, staring at the card in her hand. It gave the contact number for a Vanessa Holden, an investigator for the LSPD specialist unit. Apparently she dealt with sensitive cases with ‘the greatest expertise’. At least that was what the card claimed. She would call later. That drink was needed first.

Pocketing the card and looking up, Amanda froze when she saw Jimmy stood on the stairs. His eyes were wide and if his jaw dropped any lower, it would hit the floor. She was sure that he was still in bed. A part of her hoped that he didn’t hear too much.

“M-Mom?” he stuttered. “W-what happened to Dad? Please tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

She couldn’t bring herself to answer. The tears began to sting her eyes. It was bad enough talking about what happened, but Amanda felt sickened that one of the officers didn’t believe her.

God, she really needed a whiskey. Or ten. Amanda made her way into the kitchen, Jimmy trailing her. She snatched the whiskey bottle off the counter and tossed the cap over her shoulder. Getting a glass seemed like too much effort, so she took a swig straight from the bottle. It burned on the way down, but it was already numbing her mind.

After three more, Amanda no longer felt like being upset over it. Her mind felt reassuringly empty. Whiskey wasn’t her first choice of drink, but it was certainly better than painkillers or anti-depressants. No wonder Michael had a drink before going to the studio. Amanda didn’t blame him if it meant he could drown out the dark thoughts in his head.

“Mom?” Jimmy asked, wanting her attention. “What the hell did Jerry White do?”

Amanda took another swig of whiskey before slamming the bottle onto the counter. “I’ll tell you what that dick did, Jimmy,” she said, her words slurring slightly. “Jerry White raped your father and then shot him to keep him quiet. Ya know why?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, Jimmy watched her with wide eyes and shook his head.

“So White can keep his job and still be a sleazy shitbag, molestin’ and fuckin’ anybody he likes.”

At that, Jimmy began spluttering his words incoherently. After a few seconds, he gave up with trying to speak as Amanda took another gulp of alcohol. She leaned against the counter and pointed the bottle at her son. She assumed the one on the left was Jimmy. The one on the right looked too translucent like a ghost.

“Say nothin’ about this to anybody, y’hear?” Amanda slurred. “Not yer work buddies. Yer sister. And don’t say anythin’ to Trevor. Especially Trevor. Ain’t no one gotta know.”

Jimmy said nothing, only giving a frantic nod as a reply. He backed away, leaving his mother to take yet another swig of whiskey.


	3. Trevor Philips Industries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm alive. Apologies for the late update, peeps - typing with a broken hand is a bad idea.
> 
> On with the chapter!

Persuading the nurses to let him visit Michael wasn’t hard. The sight of an angry guy in blood stained clothing who reeked of gasoline probably scared them enough for them not to argue.

Checking his watch, Trevor guessed that he had been here for about an hour. He must have marched into Mount Zonah at around eight in the morning, having hightailed it here from Sandy Shores. In that time, he had hardly said a word. Trevor had found himself staring at Michael, not wanting to believe that this was real. Part of him didn’t know what to say. What do you say to a guy who is unable to respond?

Part of him wanted to call out bullshit. He wanted to think that as soon as he turned his back, Michael would wake up and admit that this was a big lie for something.

Except this was all too real and elaborate to be fake. Someone had shot Michael for real. A bulletproof vest was not there to save him. There was nothing fake about the large bandage over his chest. The other two were hidden by the hospital gown and blanket, but Trevor knew that they were there. Someone had put a great effort into trying to kill him.

Like the cockroach he was, Michael had survived being shot three times. Kind of. He wasn’t out of the woods yet.

“Can’t catch a break, can you, sugartits?” Trevor said, pinching Michael’s hand. So it was true what they say. Coma patients are unresponsive to pain. “Seems like people wanna kill you for existing.”

He was met with silence, with the exception of soft beeps and hissing air. The smallest part of him believed that at some point during his visit Michael would wake up. Like a scene out of the cheesiest movie ever.

As awful as this was, Trevor had other things he would rather be doing other than sitting around in a hospital room. Maybe Ron had secured a buyer for the latest batch by now. Or found an arms dealer to trade with. Trevor Philips Industries did not have a day off because Michael was doing an impression of Sleeping Beauty.

Grabbing his car keys off the bedside table, he stood up to leave. Before he did make his exit, Trevor turned around to have one final look at his best friend. A strange twang of pity pulled at him. Only for a second. That was soon replaced by searing rage. No fucking asshole would get away with trying to murder his running buddy. He grit his teeth and released a frustrated growl.

“Fuck,” Trevor muttered to himself, marching out of the room. “Fucking fuck!”

He shoved past a nurse, making her crash into the wall and drop her clipboard. She gasped, but wisely didn’t say anything to him. Clenching his fists, Trevor made his way into the ICU waiting room. Judgemental eyes seared into him as he passed by. A woman dropped her head behind a tattered gossip magazine to avoid Trevor’s glare.

A black guy in the corner looked up from his phone to stare. Trevor ignored him, not taking much notice. Almost everybody stared at him like he was some circus act. Although, if that man continued to gawp, he would rip his eyeballs out and feed them to him.

“T?” the man said. “T? Eh, man.”

Stopping in his tracks, Trevor turned to where the black guy was. In his haste to get out of the hospital, he didn’t recognise Franklin in the waiting room. Shoving his phone into his pocket, Franklin stood up as if to greet Trevor. He rubbed his right eye with his thumb, presumably to remove sleep.

“What, kid?” Trevor asked. “I guess you got a text from Jimmy last night as well?”

“Yeah,” Franklin responded with a yawn. “I ain’t responding to anything at one in the morning, though. Look, how is he? Michael?”

Trevor gave a dismissive wave. “Michael? He’s alive, but unconscious. Looks like whoever shot him has shit aim if three shots didn’t kill him.”

“What, three times?”

“Learn to read the news every once in a while, kid.”

Franklin didn’t respond immediately. He looked down at the floor and gave a heavy sigh. Before Trevor could turn and leave, he grabbed his arm. Turning around to face him, Trevor saw the glint of seriousness in Franklin’s eye.

“It ain’t that, T,” he said, keeping his voice low. He then glanced around, seemingly taking account of the people in the room. “We better talking outside. Where we might attract less attention.”

For a moment, Trevor stared at him almost dumbfounded. He gave an irritated sigh as he gave in. It was obvious that Franklin wanted to talk and for his sake, it had better be important. So he marched over to the elevator in the corridor, seeing as there was nobody lining up to use it. He listened to the dull thuds of Franklin’s footsteps as he followed.

He pressed the elevator button and waited for the doors to pull apart. Trevor looked around the corridor, seeing doctors and nurses pacing up and down. There was the odd visitor, most heading to the ICU behind them. A group of three doctors pushed a gurney with a rather fat woman on it who seemed to be sleeping. They rushed straight past the elevator and down the corridor in the direction of the operating theatres, according to the sign on the wall.

A ping distracted him. He turned a second later. Franklin was already inside the elevator, so he quickly stepped in and pushed the down button. Turning to face forward, there was a man pacing toward the elevator as the doors began to shut. Alas for him, he was too late as he was too far away to even hold the doors open.

“Should’ve been quicker, pal,” Trevor mocked.

“Fuck you, asshole!” the unlucky man snarled as the doors closed on him.

The two of them remained silent as the elevator began its descent. Glancing up at the screen, Trevor could see that it had four floors to go. At three floors to go, he slammed his fist against a large red button. The elevator ground to a sudden halt, the lights flickering before turning off.

“What the fuck, Trev?” Franklin asked, trying to reach over. His attempts were blocked by Trevor standing in front of the key pad, refusing to budge.

“You said we gotta talk,” Trevor said, jabbing his finger at Franklin’s chest. “So start talkin’, Frank.”

“In a fucking elevator?”

“Yes, in a fucking elevator.”

Franklin gave a defeated sigh, shaking his head. This time, he didn’t bother trying to reach for the buttons, though Trevor remained in front of them in case he did try again. At least nobody would eavesdrop on them here. Could be anyone outside the hospital.

“What makes me suspicious is that Michael was shot three times,” Franklin said.

“Would-be assassin can’t aim for shit,” Trevor responded bluntly. “Three shots and he didn’t kill the target. A pro would have shot him in the head or something. Nah, this is a shitty amateur.”

“No, it’s the three shots that makes me think it ain’t any amateur. It’s a gang pattern.”

Gangs? What the hell would Michael be doing dealing with gangs? It wasn’t his scene. As far as Trevor could remember, it was never his scene. Even in the Midwest, he refused to get involved in the local gangs, arguing that he and his small group were outnumbered. That and gangs were into relatively petty crimes that he had no business with. Getting killed in a gang bang wasn’t worth it. It made no sense why he would be involved now.

Maybe he was doing research for a movie. No, that couldn’t be it. Why would the associate producer be sent out doing research? If the information was that vital, Michael would have probably asked Franklin about his experiences. Or the studio would simply send out an intern, not someone in a senior position.

“Looks like Ballas to me,” Franklin added. He didn’t look Trevor in the eye. “Their gang initiation. Prove your worth as a banger by shooting some poor motherfucker three times in broad daylight.”

Trevor whipped his head around to fix Franklin a confused stare. “Why three times?” he questioned.

“Shit, I don’t know. I’m guessing it’s like a calling card. Proof to every fucker out there that the Ballas have a new gang member.”

“And out of the thousands of assholes in this city, they pick a guy who happens to be the other side of town?”

“Nah,” Franklin responded, shaking his head. “You get extra respect for killing somebody who disrespected the gang. Cop, snitch. Somebody who clapped a high ranking gangster. Nigga climbs a few steps up the food chain.”

It was as if a light bulb was flipped on in Trevor’s head.

“Stretch?” Trevor asked. Ah, the old retribution for a murdered ringleader. Not necessarily a _good_ leader, but a leader nonetheless.

“Stretch,” Franklin confirmed.

He nodded slowly. All it took was one gangster hanging around with Stretch that day to escape and the gang had a target. Trevor wouldn’t be too surprised if one got away. Michael had become sloppy in his middle years and only now was he starting to face the consequences of not being thorough enough. One prospective Balla tried to get lucky. No doubt there would be others.

Wordless, Trevor pressed the stop button again. The lights flickered back on and the elevator rumbled back to life as it continued its descent to the bottom floor. Glancing at the screen, there were two floors to go.

Eventually, the elevator ground to a stop. There was a loud ding and the doors slid open, revealing the reception at the entrance.

“Go see Michael, kid,” Trevor said flatly, stepping out. “We’ll do something about that problem later.”

Franklin didn’t follow him out of the elevator. He didn’t say anything, but he gave Trevor a nod in response. The doors shut once more, so he assumed that Franklin was going back up to the ICU. They would pay the Ballas a visit later on, preferably when Michael was alert and could defend himself. The last thing Trevor wanted was some gangster asshole getting into the hospital and pulling a tube to kill Michael as revenge for an attack on the gang. Not worth it.

He shoved past a young couple as he marched out of the automatic doors. There was the cry of ‘asshole’, but Trevor ignored it and made a beeline to his red truck parked outside the hospital.

Getting in and slamming the door against the car beside him, leaving a dent, he turned the key in the ignition. He heard the engine grumble as it started up. Then the radio crackled. There was no loud punk rock blaring from the speakers. Instead, he was met with a female newsreader.

“... _Los Santos is facing a potential drought after weeks of_...”

He flipped over to another station. It wasn’t that Trevor didn’t care for the news, it was that he didn’t care for it right now. He was out of luck for the next station. No music, but another reporter’s voice.

“... _White supremacist group, The White Angels, accuse the movie industry of ‘blackwashing’_...”

Growling in the back of his throat, Trevor turned to another station. No luck.

“... _Marabunta Grande in the Alamo_...”

“God fucking dammit!” Trevor yelled, switching off the radio.

***

“Trevor! You gotta see this!”

Ron was stood on Trevor’s trailer porch, waving his arms about like a madman. In one hand he held a sheet of paper, creasing in his grip. At times he would jump up and down, only for Trevor to ignore him as he slowed the truck down.

If it was that important, why didn’t Ron call him? Trevor rolled his eyes as he parked the truck outside the trailer and got out. He could still hear Ron begging him to look at something. Shouting something about a note that was found inside the trailer. What the hell was so threatening about a Goddamn note? As far as Trevor was concerned, it was an empty threat by someone too cowardly to face him themselves. Much easier to hide behind a piece of paper and pretend to be hard.

By the time he reached the steps up to the porch, Ron was holding the sheet of paper out to him in his fist. Trevor simply snatched it from him, hearing the paper tear as it was passed. However, he didn’t stop to read it. In all honesty, he didn’t care about it. Instead, he placed his hand on the rusting door to push it open.

“You really pissed ‘em off this time, Boss,” Ron said, voice quivering.

“Pissed off who?” Trevor questioned apathetically.

“Those Mexican...Latino... drug gangsters from last week. I don’t think they’ve taken losing three of their leaders lightly.”

Trevor shot a glare at him, immediately making Ron stop his babbling. The nervous wreck simply began to point at the note in Trevor’s hand. He flicked his eyes down to see what this note was all about. The first thing that struck him was the poor attempt at English. Perhaps ‘butchering’ was a more appropriate to describe it. Despite that, the message itself was presented as clear as day. Even if he had to take a moment to understand the word every now and then.

  
_3 bolets for our 3 hombries_  
_3 bolets shot at ur frend_  
_We mised his hed 2 mak him sufer_  
_Lik u maid the Marabunta Grande sufer_  
_Cal it revenge ashol_  
  
He ground his teeth together, growling at the back of his throat. His fingers constricted around the sheet of paper, crushing it. Those fucking assholes. Oh, Trevor knew he shouldn’t have left a single one of them alive. He should have wiped them from Blaine County. Let them suffer the same fate as The Lost and The Aztecas.

“Ron!” Trevor snarled. “Contact Chef. Tell him to meet me at that farm in Grapeseed. And tell him to come armed.”

“What are you planning to do?” Ron asked. “It’s not like you can take back McKenzie Field from them in one go, Boss.”

“That is exactly what I am planning to do. Our amigos have overstepped the line by a big fucking margin and it’s time we put ‘em down for good.”

“Didn’t you overstep the line first by killing those leaders?”

“No, they made the first move by invading my fucking business turf. Whose side you on, Ron?”

He stomped into the small, untidy bedroom and pulled the rifle out of his wardrobe. Ron had followed his every step like a little lost puppy, but made no effort to suggest he was going to help in dealing with the Marabunta. Why he bothered with carrying a handgun, Trevor didn’t know. It wasn’t like he ever used the thing out of being shit scared at being shot at. Hell, Ron was scared to pull the trigger on it.

Snatching up the ammunition stashed in the corner of the wardrobe, Trevor turned to leave. Ron stood barely a step behind, with Trevor nearly colliding into him.

“Well don’t just stand there, you useless turd!” Trevor shouted, shoving Ron out of his way. “Do as I’ve fucking told you and call Chef! I’ve known more competent rats!”

“You’re right, Boss, I’m sorry. I’ll call Chef.”

As he jogged to his truck, rifle in hand, Trevor turned to glance back at his trailer. He watched Ron scuttle away to his own hideous yellow shack, assumedly to carry out the demands. Not that he would watch over to see if the little wretch did as he was told; Trevor trusted Ron well enough.

Trevor hurled the rifle into the back, amongst an array of various other weaponry, before getting into the truck himself. The engine fired up and he pressed his foot hard against the gas pedal. He heard the tyres shriek against the ground as the Bodhi pulled away at high speed, skidding around the corner and onto the road.

A car horn blared as he overtook some redneck in a golf buggy. Turned out he nearly collided with a rust bucket that had no business on the road. With a ‘fuck you’, Trevor sped away and barely heard the driver in the shitty car cursing at him. He didn’t really care what they had to say. Besides, he had urgent business to attend to.

***

Sat on the hood of his truck, Trevor watched the passing traffic on the main road. Still no Chef. He checked his watch, estimating he had been waiting for about twenty minutes. What the fuck was taking so long? Unless Ron neglected to tell him that Trevor wanted him to get here immediately. Should have called Chef himself.

As soon as he had pulled his phone out of his pocket, a tatty red saloon pulled up to the farm, its engine spluttering. He glared at it as it trundled to a stop beside the truck, spotting the familiar, bald head of Chef behind the driver’s seat.

“Dammit, Chef!” Trevor snarled as Chef stepped out of the car. “Didn’t Ron tell you to come here immediately?”

“He said it was urgent, Trevor,” Chef explained. “But I had to finish cooking a batch first.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. You got any heavy artillery?”

Chef shot him a dumbfounded look. “I got a carbine rifle in the trunk.”

Not good enough. Clearly, Ron neglected to tell him to show up well armed. He rolled his eyes as he grabbed the grenade launcher from the back and tossed it into Chef’s hands. They needed the heavier stuff to give them the edge.

“In short, you and me are going to wipe out these business stealing, friend shooting Marabunta scumbags.”

Pulling out a rifle from the back, Trevor turned to face Chef. He was looking down at the grenade launcher in his hands, somewhat confused by what he had been dragged into. Yet he didn’t say anything immediately. Instead, he turned back toward the red tatty car and for a disheartening moment, Trevor half expected him to get in the car and drive away.

Thankfully, that didn't happen. Chef opened up the trunk and took out the carbine rifle and stashed a few ammo magazines into his pockets. Then he slammed the trunk shut, turning back with a smirk plastered on his face. He could always rely on Chef to do what was asked of him. The man was a valuable asset to Trevor Philips Industries.

“What you planning, Trevor?” Chef questioned, rifle slung on his back and grenade launcher cradled in his hands.

“First we wait for these pricks to come back,” Trevor explained. “See if we can lay any traps around the airfield in the meantime.”

Ushering Chef to follow, Trevor began to walk toward the McKenzie Field hangar. His fingers wrung around the grips of the rifle. The sooner these assholes showed up, the better for him. After tonight, the Marabunta Grande would not be a problem in Blaine County any longer.


	4. Behind The Scenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back - again. Updates will be here and there, between essays.
> 
> Anyhoo, enjoy!

“It’s _perfect_ , Solomon. It’s exactly what the audience is begging for.”

Solomon didn’t bother looking up at the director sat opposite, instead flicking through the pile of plans and drafted scripts. In truth, he had never before seen such a load of pretentious bullshit for a movie. Even at a glance, some kind of degree was seemingly a prerequisite for understanding this. The casual viewer would not be comfortable watching it.

Then again, this was a work by Jerry White. ‘Pretentious’ was that man’s middle name.

He pushed the stack of papers to one side of the desk. Alongside the envelopes of rejected scripts and drafts. Then he neatly folded his hands in front of him, staring White in the eye. He felt a chill run down his spine as he looked into the soulless grey pupils.

“I personally see no potential in this movie,” Solomon said flatly. “Who’s gonna watch something they don’t understand?”

“Ah, there’s your backwards thinking again,” White responded. “There’s a new audience out there and they don’t want mindless drivel. They want something with real meaning. They want something to pick apart and debate over. Something that makes them question the world, their lives.”

“And I see you’re appealing to the small, niche audience and the critics. Not the masses.”

White leaned back in his chair, scratching at his neatly combed white hair. For a moment, he said nothing. He instead stared blankly over at Solomon, as if he couldn’t believe that one of his movies was being questioned. Richards Majestic never dealt with pretentious. Never had, never will. Why would the studio start now?

Inhaling, Solomon straightened up a black pen on his desk, lining it up with the other two. Part of him wanted to immediately scrawl or stamp ‘rejected’ on the drafts if only to dent White’s over-inflated ego. Yet he restrained himself. He couldn’t help but think that the old director wanted something. What, he didn’t know.

“So why pitch to me?” Solomon questioned. “A studio that, last year, you labelled a fossil?”

At that, White smirked. “Because I can bring Richards Majestic firmly into the twenty-first century. And that right there is the movie that’ll do just that.”

“At your age, Jerry, you ain’t exactly down-with-the-kids. We both ain’t.”

“But I recognise that times move on and things have to change. Give the audience what it wants. Cheesy plots and happy endings don’t do it no more.”

He glanced over at the drafts, eyes roaming over the cover page. ‘MADMAN’ in emboldened font. ‘By Jerry White’ had been typed underneath. More specifically, it declared that this was ‘a screenplay by Jerry White’. To think that people claim millennials were the entitled ones. Obviously they had never met Mr White.

“I will have a look over it in detail,” Solomon sighed, dragging the pile of papers back into the middle of the desk. “See if we can tap into this new audience.”

“That’s great, Solomon,” White declared, jumping up to shake his hand. “You won’t regret this move, lemme tell ya.”

“Don’t get too excited yet. I’ll contact ya when I make a decision on it.”

White stood up, still smirking. The man never exactly smiled. As in a genuine, warm happy smile. It was always a self-satisfied expression. He shook Solomon’s hand again before turning to go out the door.

Then he paused, hand wrapped around the door handle. He slowly turned his head to face Solomon again, a glint in his eye.

“And if you do green light it, Solomon, can I ask one thing from you?”

Solomon looked up. “What?”

“The producer. I want the associate producer to be that new one you got. I met him at the last Frankies and he’s got something about him that I like. What was it? Mark? Desanos?”

“Michael De Santa? Depends how his recovery goes first.”

“Oh?” That was all White could say, his tone trying to at least sound concerned. “Oh, what happened? Is he okay? Drug habit we didn’t know about and is now in rehab?”

“No. His wife called this morning. Michael was shot yesterday and is now comatose in the hospital.”

White simply nodded, facial expression blank. The man could play poker with that face. No look of shock. Seemingly no concern. Just nodded. As if he was taking mental note of what he had been told.

“Well,” he muttered, opening the door. “Send Michael my regards. Was looking forward to...uh...working with him.”

Solomon chose not to respond, watching White leave his office. As soon as that door shut, he gave a heavy sigh and rubbed his hands over his face. Of all the directors out there, why did he have to work with that narcissist? Granted, nearly everyone in this industry had huge egos, but White was a whole other level.

He pulled the drafts in front of him again and flipped over the front page. The first thing he was met with was a page full of handwriting in blue ink. Arrows everywhere, pointing to additional thoughts. In the centre, noted down, was the plot. Well, he assumed it was the plot.

As far as he could tell, the movie centred on a photographer who preferred the ‘realness’ – according to one of the arrow points – of film cameras over digital. His studio is failing and he struggles to pay the bills. The wife gets pissed off, afraid of repossession or losing her home. Since he won’t change, she divorces him. Photographer loses his mind.

That was it. Surely that was not the end of the plot? Frowning, Solomon flipped over the page but couldn’t find any more notes. It was the start of the script drafts. He simply rolled his eyes. Trust White to hand in unfinished drafts.

Solomon flicked through the pages of fragmented lines and bullet point descriptions. God, it didn’t seem to end. He thumbed through the messily written divorce scenes and over dramatic lines. Scanned over the destruction of the dark room. Flipped past the drunk scene.

Then he paused. The next part was not in note form. It was neat, polished. The lines were well structured and the descriptions specific. Solomon leaned forward slightly as he read the draft. The photographer had met his younger assistant in a bar, a scene that would apparently need several background extras. Both characters were sat in a corner to be undisturbed. The drink of choice was whiskey, although vodka would do. All the requirement was that the alcohol was to be strong.

His eyes narrowed as he read over the next page. The assistant leaves the scene, saying he needs to go to the bathroom. White had specifically stated that the character was largely sober. The actor was not to be stumbling around like a drunkard. It wasn’t that bit that raised his eyebrows. It was the next bit, and how detailed it was.

The photographer, who should have been watching his assistant with ‘lust’ throughout the scene, slips a pill into his assistant’s drink that was left on the table. White mentioned how the pill should obviously come from a packet in the character’s pocket.

“A sleeping agent?” Solomon muttered, reading the description. “Should dissolve in liquid like _Zylopol_.”

His eyes narrowed as he skipped by a couple of pages. They widened again when he read through the next few lines. How he didn’t exclaim ‘what the fuck’ was beyond him.

The central character had driven the inebriated assistant back to his own house and dragged him into his bed. It started off slow. He peeled off the assistant’s jacket. Then ran a hand along his body. The camera cuts out when the photographer begins to undo the assistant’s pants.

Horrified, Solomon tossed the draft onto the floor. No one would want to sit in a theatre and watch a blatant rape scene. If this was what this new audience wanted, then they were just sick and he didn’t want anything to do with them. Sick fucks. Solomon was more than happy with his cliché happy endings.

God, he needed a walk. Or perhaps some fresh air. He stood up from his desk and made a point of walking over the tossed drafts as he went over to the door.

As soon as he stepped out into the corridor, it was as if the proverbial light bulb went off in his head. He remembered that Michael wanted to talk to him, concerning a director. The timing was off. Solomon had to look over edited scripts for _Deep Inside_ and had no time to talk. Looking back, maybe he should have at least asked who was the problem.

He turned to his right, looking at the door to Michael’s office. Could be some clues in there about what was bothering him. Come to think of it, he never said what the issue was with this anonymous director. Maybe he was overthinking the severity. Maybe Michael wanted to tell him that he wanted to work with them.

Or, on the other end of the scale, there could be a personal problem.

Might as well have a look around. He pushed the door open to the office. The place looked normal, with folders neatly stacked on the desk and items neatly cleaned, displayed around the room. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Solomon made his way over to the document drawer at the back, pulling it open. Thankfully, everything was neatly documented and labelled. He flipped down the folders until he reached the label ‘D’ and pulled it out.

Most were labelled as ‘drafts’, the majority for _Deep Inside._ There were other movie drafts too, all organised in alphabetical order. Towards the back was the sub folder labelled ‘directors’. Jackpot.

Alas, the folder was very small. By the look of it, these were the directors that Michael had already worked with. So far, that was one. Even then, the papers were only Michael’s personal notes of what he thought were their strengths and weaknesses. Anton Beaudelaire was apparently ‘arrogant’ and liked to ‘shoot way higher than his station’, but otherwise he ‘got shit done when prompted’. There was nothing suggested any personal problems with him, though.

“Shit,” Solomon breathed out. Surely there had to be something that indicated a problem?

He put the folder back in its place. Okay, so nothing in there. Closing that drawer, he opened the one below it. His eye caught one sub folder that was sticking out of the ‘R’ folder. Rejections. By the look of it, that folder was recently seen to.

So Michael had recently trashed a plan. What was it? Solomon pulled out the folder, only to find one document in it. Normally, he was supposed to refer any draft to Solomon, unless the scripts were so God-awful with no chance of a green light.

Pulling the document out, he was met with the title page that declared the movie was called AMERICA’S BLACK PROBLEM. Produced in association with the White Angels. Although, ‘REJECTED’ had been written across the front page in red ink. The whole thing was quite thin, probably only ten pages and consisted only of notes and a broken plot.

Flicking through, the movie should be documentary style and gave the viewpoint that America’s morality was being dragged down by its black and minority populations, largely citing gang violence. Remove them, problem’s gone. The White Angels and similar groups would save America from total anarchy. Full of racist terminology that would not be well received by anyone with even a small conscience.

No wonder Michael outright rejected this shit. The back page was full of someone else’s handwriting. After a moment’s thought, Solomon recognised the handwriting as Michael’s. He declared the plans as ‘a disgrace’, the pitchers as ‘racist scum’, and the whole thing should ‘never see the light of day’. 

Solomon gave a heavy sigh as he returned the document to its folder. In all his time in the movie industry, he had never seen such inflammatory shit. It didn’t deserve to be shelved. It needed to be burned out of existence.

Shaking his head, he closed the drawer. He had seen enough. As much as he wanted to destroy that thing, he couldn’t. If Michael came back, he would know that someone had been in his office. One way to destroy the trust between junior and senior staff.

He briefly glanced down, spotting the bin. Should have been emptied, but there were ripped up papers in there. That had to have been recent. The cleaners empty them every few days. Eyebrow raised, Solomon fished the scraps out and scattered them over the desk. Had to have been from the day before Michael was shot at the latest.

Putting the scraps together, they made a cover page and rough notes. Another draft for _America’s Black Problem_. How many drafts were in this office? Obviously Michael was pissed off with it for him to tear it up.

“Ah, Mr Richards?”

The woman’s voice made him flinch and look up. Solomon’s eyes widened as he saw what looked to be a police team, if the badges on their waists were anything to go by. The woman who spoke, being the only one there, was in the centre. Her two colleagues towered over her.

“Oh...err...can I help you?” Solomon asked, putting on a smile.

“Your secretary let us in. We want to ask you some questions, Mr Richards. Concerning what happened to your associate producer.”

“I answered your questions yesterday. I don’t know what more I can tell ya.”

“Mr Richards, we are a specialist unit for the LSPD. We look into sensitive cases like sexual assault.”

A specialist unit? Why the hell would a specialist unit be needed to investigate a shooting? Okay, may as well play along. See what they’re looking for.

“Michael was shot, not assaulted,” Solomon said.

“Not what was said this morning,” the woman replied. “Mr De Santa’s wife told a police team that Michael was assaulted. The two cases could be related.”

Solomon’s face dropped. Why didn’t Michael say anything like that happened to him? “What? When? Who did it? This is news to me, lemme tell ya.”

“We’re not at liberty to say, Mr Richards. We need to know what Michael’s behaviour has been like for the past three months. And if there’s anything of suspicion that we should investigate.”

He leaned back on the desk. Part of him wished that Michael had said something so that problem could be dealt with. God, what if that was what Michael wanted to talk to him about? Solomon wanted to be sick. He rubbed his hands over his face. Poor bastard. Probably found the confidence to open up only to be shot down.

“I know that Michael has been comparatively quiet,” Solomon explained. “Mostly kept himself in his office, alone. Although, yesterday, Michael wanted to talk to me about a director.”

“We were informed of that,” one of the men said. “Said you were too busy, so you rescheduled a discussion that afternoon.”

“That’s right. I wasn’t expecting him to be shot before then. Nobody was.”

The short woman was busy scribbling notes down on a small pad. Then she tilted her head to stare over at him. “Is there anything of suspicion that you think we should look at?”

Solomon lowered his head in thought. Anything suspicious. Initially, he couldn’t think of anything of that description. The more he thought about it, his mind would drift to White’s very vivid draft of that scene. He should have questioned how that was written with such disturbing detail. Finding out that Michael may have been in a similar position at some point was now making him ask questions.

“It could be nothing,” he started, walking over to them. “But it may lead to somethin’, I don’t know.”

“We’ll be the judge of that, Mr Richards,” the woman said, stepping aside to let him pass.

“I had a meeting with Jerry White earlier and he handed me this draft for a new movie. Almost all of it is in notes, but this one scene.”

“And what kind of scene is this, Mr Richards?”

He walked into his office and picked up the draft from the floor. After walking over it, the papers were crumpled with a footprint over the front page. A shudder slithered down his spine as he flipped through the document until he found the vile scenes.

A ringing phone made him pause. Turning around, he watched the woman pull her phone from her pocket. She looked at the screen for a moment before answering.

“Detective Vanessa Holden, specialist unit,” she said.

Solomon stared at her as she listened to the person on the other end of the line. She nodded every so often. Then she gave a sigh before replying to the caller.

“Okay, Mrs De Santa, we’ll be round as soon as we can.”

Then she hung up, slipping the phone back into her pocket. All the while, Solomon was still stood there with the script held out in his hand. He didn’t want to read through that again.

“That was the wife,” Vanessa Holden sighed to her colleagues. “She wants to talk to us about what she knows. Mr Richards?”

He looked up at her, draft still in hand. “You gonna see to this?” he asked, indicating the scripts.

“Yes, we’ll take it in and look over it. Just to know what we’re looking at, what kind of scene is it, Mr Richards?”

“I-it’s a rape scene. Suspiciously graphic.”

One of her colleagues took the document from his hand and took a flip through. Then he quickly closed it and held it under his arm. Vanessa looked up at him, holding her hand out to shake.

“Thank you for the short time, Mr Richards,” she said, shaking his hand. “But we’ll likely come back for more questioning. If you think of anything or something else comes up, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

She handed him a small business card with her number. The group didn’t waste any time in bidding goodbye, instead simply walking down the corridor. Solomon glanced up, watching them leave. Then he looked back down at the card.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” he muttered as he sat back down at his desk.


	5. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back with another chapter. Apologies for the tardiness - is this how George R.R Martin feels?

She flipped through the pages of the magazine, eyes barely skimming over the bold and bright headlines. Lose two stone with kale. My holiday from hell. Kids burned down my house. A dull ache in her head prevented her from reading any further. She forgot how potent whiskey could be. Never mind the burn as it went down. It was what it did to one’s head afterwards.

Then she paused as she caught glimpse of a particularly disturbing image. The article was spread over both pages, a huge image of a man and a woman adorning the paper. Red capital letters read:

MY HUSBAND: THE VEGETABLE.

The husband in the article wasn’t a literal carrot, but he may as well have been by the look of him in that photo. He was sat in a wheelchair, having been strapped into it with something similar to car seatbelts. His mouth was agape like he was having difficulty breathing, a trickle of saliva slipping off his bottom lip. His eyes were glossed over, staring upwards at something other than his wife beside him.

Amanda flicked her eyes to look at the woman. She was about ready to cry in that photo, her lips pulled taught like she was trying to force a smile for the camera. She wore no make-up, letting the red spots adorn her cheeks. Her blonde hair was up in a messy bun, strands sticking out in all directions. Once upon a time, Amanda was willing to bet that this woman was beautiful and glamorous. She pictured her with gorgeous Vinewood waves and shiny golden hair. She used to have a Vinewood smile, with red lips and bold eyeliner that accentuated her bright blue eyes.

According to the article, this woman’s life was turned upside down after her husband was involved in a car crash. He was comatose for about a year. But he never recovered. Reduced to a mental age of two years old, he needed to rely on his wife to survive. She fed him liquidized food, sometimes even baby food. She had to give him diaper changes as he couldn’t go to the bathroom. She had to bathe him, often with a sponge as he remained in his chair. She had to dress him, undress him. Change soiled clothing. All the while, he couldn’t communicate. The only exceptions were grunts and other non-communal noises.

Amanda slowly closed the magazine and pushed it away from her. What if that was her future, right there on glossy paper? She wouldn’t be a wife. She would be a carer. Her days spent just looking after her husband. Part of her couldn’t imagine Michael like that. Reduced to an oversized two year old. That wasn’t him. Michael was witty. Maybe a bit corny. Michael was a movie-buff. He was spontaneous surprise. Would he come home with flowers? Pink roses; Amanda adored pink roses. Chocolates? Handmade by the chocolatier, of course. Or perhaps an evening out at her favourite Vinewood restaurant?

_“See? The ships are coming…”_ said the voice on the television in the next room.

“…but these walls will hold us,” Amanda murmured under her breath.

She had put on _Nelson in Naples_ in the hope of distracting herself. Make herself think that Michael was still in the house, sat on the couch with a grin on his face and a glass of scotch in one hand. Except hearing that line without him copying it only reminded her that he wasn’t here. Amanda had seldom heard Mitch Dexter deliver that quote. Instead, she often heard Michael’s quite poor attempt of an English accent, pretending he was Horatio Nelson.

Right now, she would give anything to hear that butchered accent again. Admittedly, it always made her smile.

She raised her head up to stare into the living room. A small twang of loneliness pinched at her heart as she laid eyes on that empty couch. Michael wasn’t here. Jimmy wasn’t here either to complain about the movie, having left for work a couple of hours ago. He didn’t really want to, constantly asking her if she needed someone to be with her. Amanda simply told him to go. He needed to be distracted by his job. Get away from the constant worry.

Her eyes flicked down to the table again. She didn’t want to touch that magazine again, lest she get nightmares. Instead, her hand drifted to the left and landed on an opened envelope. The top had been ripped off to get access to the letter inside.

Tugging the letter out, Amanda was reminded of how weird it was. It wasn’t typed, nor handwritten. Cold fear slithered down her spine when she saw the cut out words and letters in various sizes and fonts. If it wasn’t so threatening, she would have been tempted to laugh at it. This was the epitome of the clichéd villain.

Amanda read through the letter again, her stomach knotting as she read further along. She had wanted to tear it up and burn the shreds in a fire, but that would mean getting rid of potential evidence.

DEAR MRS DE SANTA. BE ASSURED YOU AND YOUR CHILDREN WILL BE SAFE. WE MEAN NO HARM TO YOU. YOUR HUSBAND HAS PISSED OFF THE WRONG PEOPLE. WE DO NOT TAKE INSULTS LIGHTLY. TRY TO SILENCE US AND WE WILL SILENCE YOU. HE IS LUCKY THIS TIME. NEXT TIME HIS LUCK WILL RUN OUT.

Whoever it was neglected to sign it. They also didn’t bother putting a postal address on the envelope either. She found it pushed under the door. Unfortunately, she didn’t see who had walked up the drive or walk away.

Knocking on the door disturbed her train of thought. Amanda pushed the letter back into the envelope before getting up from the table. There was another knock as she marched through the living room, the movie still playing in the background.

Behind the stained glass were three silhouettes. She wasn’t expecting three people. Throwing caution to the wind, Amanda opened the door just enough for her to see who was on the step. She was met by a short woman wearing a dull grey blazer, black hair tied back. Two men, one white and one African American, were stood looming behind her, both in black shirts.

“Hello, Mrs De Santa,” the woman said. Her voice was firm. “I’m Detective Vanessa Holden. You wanted to speak to me about something regarding your husband?”

For a moment, Amanda stared at Holden almost dumbstruck. She kind of expected someone a little taller. And, if she was being totally honest, someone a little bit older. The woman was either in her late twenties, or Amanda really should ask her what anti-aging cream she used.

“Uh…yeah…” Amanda responded, snapping out of her brief trance. “Yeah, sure, come in.”

Opening the door wider, she stood back as Holden and the two men stepped inside the house. Almost immediately, they were drawn to the living room. Like ants to sugar, they were probably led there by the sound of the movie. As soon as they were inside the house, Amanda shut the door with a tired sigh. She pulled her phone from her pocket and glimpsed at the time. Half two in the afternoon. God, was this ever going to end?

She followed the cops into her living room, noticing the white man inspecting the whiskey bottle and tumblers on the table. The black man and Holden were seemingly more interested in the movie.

“ _Nelson in Naples_?” the man asked.

“Yeah, yeah it’s one of Michael’s favourites,” Amanda said, forcing a small smile. “Just reminds me of him is all.”

“Ever looked into Horatio Nelson? Fascinating guy.”

That made Amanda’s smile grow a little more. Although she never researched more about Nelson, Michael did. It reminded her of a photograph he once showed her when he was a kid, wearing a black paper hat he had made himself and hiding his right arm in his coat. She never knew Nelson lost his right arm in the Battle of Santa Cruz de Tenerife until she had started dating him.

“Michael knows more than I do,” Amanda admitted. “I didn’t tell him, but I’ve booked a week in London for his birthday next year. Just the two of us. Said he always wanted to go. Maybe see the _Victory_ too.”

She gulped down a growing lump in her throat. That day was already planned out in her head. It would be an absolute surprise until he returned home from the studio and find their suitcases packed. The tickets to London would be hidden in the birthday card. First class travel, too. Stay in a fancy hotel.

What if that would never happen? Her mind drifted back to that Goddamn magazine and the man in the wheelchair. God, if Michael ended up like that, going to London would be a miserable experience. Amanda wanted to see him happy, exploring the sights and learning the rich history. She knew he would love it. But if he was like that man in the magazine, he wouldn’t be able to appreciate it. He wouldn’t even know where he was.

With a slight sniff, she wiped her eye with her thumb. It wasn’t the wasted money that bothered her. It was the wasted opportunities. The wasted moments together as a couple, not a carer and patient.

“Well, we’re not here to talk movies,” Holden said, holding a pen and a notepad in her hands. “You wanted to talk to us about something.”

Amanda didn’t respond, but she did fix Holden a glare. Yes, they were not here for casual conversation, but she expected a little more sympathy for a woman whose husband was on life support in hospital and had been a victim of sexual assault.

Nevertheless, she made her way back to the dining room table, trying to ignore the magazine that was still there. She picked up the unmarked envelope, taking a brief moment to stare at it. There were no postage stamps. Nor markings. Not even a ‘manufactured by’ along one of the edges.

“This was what I called you about,” Amanda said, pushing the envelope into Holden’s hand. “I don’t know who delivered it. All I know is it was pushed through under the door.”

Eyebrow raised, Vanessa Holden flipped the envelope around as if searching for any kind of marking. Seeing nothing, she pulled out the letter and unfolded it. Her eyes widened as soon as she saw the unusual format. Then she looked at the back of the paper. Like the envelope, that was blank as well. Not even a small pen mark. Nothing.

“This…is definitely a threat,” Holden started. “And whoever sent it doesn’t want to be traced back so easily.”

Her white colleague marched up, snatching the piece of paper out of her hand. He held it up to one of the spotlights on the ceiling, as if hoping to find a hidden message. Amanda had already tried that, holding it up against the window. The most she saw were globs of glue.

“Looks like it’s connected to our mystery shooter,” he said, handing back the paper to Holden. “And they ain’t finished yet. You got any suspicion about who wants Michael out the picture?”

Amanda felt a chill down her spine. Whoever wanted Michael dead was still out there and they were willing to try again. She wrung her hands nervously, feeling the sweat on her palms.

Then she gave a slight shrug. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean…I wanted to think it was that director, White, but after the language of that letter. We? I have no idea anymore.”

“Well, as we’re here, we may as well talk about Mr White,” Holden said, her head nodding a little. She briefly looked over her shoulder to her colleagues before looking back at Amanda. “Do you mind if we sit down, Amanda?”

Considering they were a specialist unit, she should have expected that Jerry White would be a topic of conversation. With a sigh, Amanda led her to the dining room table for a seat. The detective wasn’t joined by her two colleagues. They still lingered in the living room, close enough that they could overhear the conversation.

Holden had already placed her slightly crumpled notepad on the table, having opened it to a blank page. Her phone was laid down beside it. She pulled the lid off her pen, quickly drawing a small squiggle in the top corner to test it.

Amanda sat down opposite her, wiping her clammy palms on her pants.

“Okay, so I will be asking you about what you know of the incident with Mr White,” Holden explained, eyes flicking up to look over at Amanda. “If at any time you feel uncomfortable to answer, just say and we’ll move on. Or if you want to stop the interview entirely, that’s fine too. Okay?”

Amanda gave a nod as she exhaled. The detective tapped her phone once.

“Alright. Night of the Frankie Awards was the twelfth of February twenty-fourteen. Can you take me back to the morning of February thirteenth?”

Shit. Her mouth rapidly dried out as she tried to remember that fateful morning. She had hoped to try and let it fade from her memory. Amanda gulped down another growing lump as her eyes revolved around the room, glancing over at Holden, then her two colleagues in the living room, then down at the table again, before they noticed the other whiskey bottle on the kitchen island.

Okay, what could she remember? She remembered standing in the kitchen quite early in the morning. A green bath robe was wrapped around her. There had been a mug of coffee in her hand. A pink mug, if she remembered correctly.

She licked her dry lips. “Before the awards evening, Michael told me he would come home at around three in the morning,” Amanda said, wracking her brain for everything that was said and done at the time. “But he never came home at three. Or even four. I had been awake since six, I think, waiting for him to come home. I left calls, voicemails, texts. Nothing. He didn’t answer me.”

Holden’s pen scratched against the paper. “What were you thinking at that time?”

“God, in hindsight it sounds fucking awful, but I thought that he was cheating. In bed with a starlet or something.” She clasped her hands together on the table and gave a shaky inhale. “The marriage was on the rocks about a year ago. All the cheating. I guess I thought he had gone back to old habits.”

The pen scratched again. Amanda just stared at her hands, her stomach feeling like a stone. She felt like a piece of shit for even thinking that first. Trying to console herself that she didn’t know at the time didn’t help much. Maybe old habits really do die hard. After years of taking not home on time indicating cheating, it was just a habit she had slipped to.

“Tell me what happened when Michael did come home.”

“He came home at about nine thirty in the morning. Well, he staggered through the door. Not like _drunk_ staggering, but staggering like he was in pain. He had difficulty walking.”

That moment he did enter the house was when she had a suspicion that it wasn’t cheating. His suit was dishevelled, as if he had gotten dressed quickly. He didn’t remain in the hallway for long. He had given a brief look at Amanda before he limped his way upstairs.

“And the next thing I know is Michael’s trying to throw up in the bathroom,” Amanda said bluntly.

“He was purging?” Holden asked.

“I…I don’t fully know. I just heard him throwing up in the toilet. So I run up to see him with his fingers down his throat. Making himself sick.”

“And when did you find out what happened?”

Amanda clenched her hands together, letting the nails dig into her skin. She could remember that awful moment of realisation like it was seared into her memory. Needing a moment, she looked down at the table and wiped her eye with one hand.

“I had a suspicion,” she replied, her voice starting to shake. “I had this really fucking horrible suspicion when I laid my hand on his shoulder and…and…”

She paused. It was as if she couldn’t get the words out. They were there, lodged in her throat, but they weren’t passing her lips.

“And?” Holden repeated.

A swallow. “And he didn’t want to be touched.”

Amanda wiped away a tear that had slipped from her eye. She remembered the way he had flinched when she touched his shoulder. The way he suddenly turned to look at her, eyes wide with fear. The way he had inched further away from her.

Meanwhile, Holden was scribbling down the notes on her pad. Filling up that page, she flipped over to the next one. Before writing any more, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a packet of tissues. She took one out and passed it over, which Amanda took with a quiet ‘thanks’.

“Are you okay to continue?” Holden asked.

Scrunching the tissue in her hand, Amanda simply nodded. Truth be told, she would rather get this shit over with.

“Okay. Did Michael say what happened? You told a police team earlier that you took him to get a kit done quite quickly.”

“At first, he didn’t say what happened,” Amanda said. “I asked him why he was throwing up. He told me it was food poisoning, nothing more. Then…I don’t know, I guess you could say he just became very hysterical. Burst out crying for seemingly no reason.”

It was sudden. One second he was trying to vomit. The next, he began what sounded like laughing as he rested his head on the toilet rim.

Amanda squeezed the scrunched up tissue in her hand. “Then he came out with it. Just out of the blue. Told me he thought he had been raped.” She gave a shaky inhale. “Michael said he woke up that morning, naked, in a strange bed. On his front. Found Jerry White next to him. He said he couldn’t remember how he got there. Blacked out at some point early in the afterparty and next thing he knew was…he was _there._ Suspected his drink had been spiked.”

She briefly glanced up, watching the pen move across the paper. Holden finished her note and flipped the page over again. Then she looked over her shoulder at her two colleagues, both slowly nodding their heads.

“Said he wanted a shower,” Amanda continued. “He _needed_ a shower. He felt dirty. I told him no. He needed to get a kit done. Even if he didn’t want to report it then, he would have that option in the future.”

“Do you know why Michael chose not to report it in?”

Her eyes flicked down to her hands again. “He said nobody was going to believe him. Because he was man.”

Actually saying it made her eyes widen. At the time, she wondered why he would say that. He should have reported it there and then. After this morning, she understood why. After that cop tried to accuse him of cheating and using the sexual assault story as cover. It was as if Michael saw that reaction coming. It gutted Amanda that he couldn’t tell someone and be taken seriously.

“And this kit was done at Mount Zonah Hospital, yes?” Holden questioned.

She nodded again as she brought the tissue back up to her eye. Her guts felt as if they had knotted and it felt like there was a weight on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. When she did force an inhale, a choked sob came out.

“Okay, Amanda, just one more question and we’ll be done. What was Michael’s behaviour afterward? Was therapy sought? Blocked it out?”

“I don’t think he ever blocked it out,” Amanda admitted, voice shaking. Then she sniffed, wiping her nose with the tissue. “He was obsessed with being clean. Had to be clean. He took two showers a day for at least a month. Half hour a time at least. Every time he went to the bathroom, he would scrub his hands. And I mean _scrub_. As in, he often drew blood he was scrubbing that hard.”

How many times did she see him with long scratches on his hand? Amanda licked her dampening lips again. One time, he was at the sink for ten minutes, scrubbing at his hands. Another time, not long after the incident, she found him sat fully clothed in the shower, tears mixing with the droplets of water. The shower was a place to hide. A place to release emotion without prying eyes.

“Then he became controlling,” she continued. “Not on me. Not on the kids. But with what he ate. What he drank. For everything, it had to be measured. If it was cereal, it would be one cup exactly. If he had pizza, he would remove every piece of pepperoni first then only put two pieces on each pizza slice. Water was eight fluid ounces a time.”

Was it any wonder he lost weight? It was hard to believe that it wasn’t too long ago when he didn’t care what he ate, as long as it was edible. Then Amanda found herself watching his portion sizes shrink. Even yesterday, he made do with a small salad that he picked at.

“As for sex,” she said with a slight laugh. “Well, that’s non-existent. Michael’s never interested, no matter what I do. New sexy underwear? Not interested. Some nights he would sleep on the couch, because he doesn’t even want to be next to a person.”

“And all this without any kind of therapy?”

Amanda shook her head. Michael never sought therapy, thinking he would just get over it. He never did. She should have pushed him to seek help. Particularly regarding his eating habits. That was pretty much a ticking time bomb.

She looked up to see Holden closing her notepad and was now placing the lid back on her pen. It was all over. Thankfully. Amanda released a small sigh of relief. She rubbed her hands over her face, wiping away the tears that were forming in her eyes.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs De Santa,” Holden said as she stood up from the table. “We will look into the case further. In the meantime, we will probably ask for permission to access the kit, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, yeah that’s fine,” Amanda replied. “Thank you, detective.”

“No worries. If anything else comes up, be sure to give us a call. We’ll show ourselves out.”

Amanda remained at the table as she watched Holden walk away, her two colleagues following. As soon as she heard that door shut, she gave a sigh. She noted the silence in the house. The movie had played through by now, but she didn’t have the heart to put it on repeat. She couldn’t fool herself into thinking Michael was around anymore.

Speaking of Michael, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and checked the time. Ten past three. She had time to make the afternoon visiting hours. Not like the hospital was too far away, and providing she got changed now.

 ***

 

Perhaps it was foolish to think that Michael’s condition had improved since yesterday. Although he did have more colour to him, he was still unconscious. Amanda sat in the chair beside the bed, holding onto his hand. She wanted to believe that he felt slightly warmer today. He had to be warmer with more blood back in his body.

Other than that, there had been no change. The heart monitor was still beeping steadily and softly in the background. The ventilator still hissed, still breathing for him. There were clean bandages over his chest and the IV lines continued to provide him with some sort of cocktail of drugs to keep him alive.

She brought up his hand and kissed it gently. Amanda stared ahead, not willing to look at Michael in the state he was in. There were a few cards on the bedside table, friends and family wishing him to ‘get well soon’. One had ‘Dad’ on the front, no doubt from Tracey. Funny, she never said she was going to visit him. Two generic ones stood on either side of that one.

Amanda set Michael’s hand down and quickly got up to take a look at the cards. She was right in guessing that one was from Tracey, who had written in her card to tell him that she had passed her mid-term exams. One card just read ‘get well soon’ in blue lettering; that was from Franklin. The other had a bouquet of flowers on it and was from Solomon, although other work colleagues had also signed it.

“Y’see? We’re all worried about you,” Amanda said to him as she made her way back to her seat. She took hold of his hand again. “We all love you.”

For a few minutes, she found herself massaging his hand and listening to the beeps and hisses of the equipment. At least they reminded her that he was still alive. Still hanging on.

“Had the police come round today,” she started conversationally. “Had two this morning about the shooting. Then I had a specialist unit this afternoon to look into Jerry. I thought he was linked to the shooting, but I’m guessing I’m wrong. Whoever it was sent a letter. And I don’t think they’re done yet. Whoever they are.”

She glanced down at him, still motionless. Amanda wanted to believe that she saw Michael’s eyelashes flicker, but she was certain that it was either the light or her eyes playing tricks on her. He wasn’t waking up yet.

“The police want the rape kit,” Amanda sighed. “For a stronger case against that fucking asswipe. See, I told you it would be useful to get it. He’s not going to get away with it, I know he won’t.”

That, and she was willing to fight tooth and nail to get justice. After three months of hell, it was the least Michael deserved. She squeezed his hand as she forced a smile. Maybe now, that was going to come to an end.

“Just want you to wake up soon, baby,” she said, blinking back more tears. “I just want you to be okay. I love you so much.”


	6. Impatience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another chapter is up, complete with attempts at action scenes! Enjoy, peeps!

“You better correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t you the nigga who said ‘no more retro vengeance gangbangin’ bullshit’?”

Franklin fixed Lamar a glare before turning his attention back to watching Grove Street. They were parked up just off the corner in Lamar’s old beaten van, lights turned off to hide in the dark. He watched the clusters of Ballas around the street, noting one of them just opposite the van showing off a large serrated knife to his buddies.

“Shit, dawg, I know that look,” Lamar continued to blabber on. “Shit, that the look your motherfucking ugly mug gets when you wanna creep on some punk bitch.”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Franklin sighed. “We ain’t creepin’ on anyone. Not yet.”

“Oh, so not _yet_?”

“Nah. This shit surveillance. I know one of these motherfuckers tried to clap one of my homies.”

Surprisingly, Lamar stayed silent as a group of three Ballas wandered past the van. Franklin held his breath, hoping that they wouldn’t look inside. He noted that the one at the front, incidentally the fattest, had a pistol tucked away in the back of his pants. As for the other two, he wasn’t so sure what they were armed with.

The trio crossed the street, joining with two other gangsters. One of them looked to be littered in gold. Gold rings, gold earrings, and four gold chains dangling around his neck. No doubt he wanted to stand out. Prove he was the biggest, baddest homie around.

He briefly glanced up at the rear-view mirror, catching a glimpse of a rifle that was stored in the back. The plan was to watch and not be seen. But Franklin knew that he couldn’t be that complacent with Ballas, especially when he was on their territory.

“Who the fuck we even looking for?” Lamar questioned, boredom dripping in his tone.

“We looking for the nigga who tried to clap Michael,” Franklin said bluntly.

“Yo’ creeper homie? And how the fuck we gonna know who tried to clap him? What, we gonna go to each nigga and go ‘eh, homie, yo’ tried to clap some white dude’? Cuz I can guarantee that most o’ these fuckers tried to clap some white dude before.”

Franklin didn’t bother responding, his focus still on the clusters of Ballas around them. The group across the road were moving further into Grove Street, a lanky one glancing back to where the van was parked every now and then.

His hand slipped down to his hip and wrapped around the handle of his pistol. Could be nothing. He hoped it was nothing and that they suspected nothing. Still, only a fool would never prepare for the worst case scenario.

“You turned into a jumpy-ass bitch, homie,” Lamar chuckled. “Gone soft since you retired or somethin’?”

“No, just cautious. When will your dumb fucking ass learn to sense danger? Or was that sense lost when you was dropped on your head by your mom?”

“Oooh, you turnin’ into a delicate bitch in yo’ old age, Frank.”

“Nigga, go fuck yourself!”

“Awww, you forgot to take yo’ meds this mornin? You need a…”

He was suddenly cut off by a knocking on the window. Franklin jumped in his seat and turned to the window. His blood suddenly turned into ice. He could feel his heart thumping hard, as if trying to escape from the ribcage. This was the last thing he wanted.

Three Ballas were stood by the van, one of them at the back with his hand to his back. Shit. After a brief glance over at Lamar, Franklin wound down the window.

“Fuck you think yo’ doin’, homie?” the Balla at the front asked.

“Waitin’ for someone,” Franklin lied, before Lamar could answer first.

“Ain’t no nigga round here expectin’ a pickup.”

One of his lackies nudged him. “Eh, they ain’t waitin’ for some pickup. They fuckin’ CGF motherfuckers.”

How the fuck did they know? He looked back at Lamar…only to notice that the dumbass had his green bandana around his neck. May as well have spray painted CGF on the side of the van if he wanted to be that fucking obvious. He knew he should have waited for Trevor to deal with them. Franklin silently vowed to never go against his gut instinct again. Patience really was a virtue.

The Balla had already pulled out his pistol, prepared to aim. Franklin grabbed his own pistol, still on his hip, but before he could pull it from its holster, he heard a thundering bang as the Balla’s head snapped back.

Whilst the two lackies stood dumbfounded, Franklin took his opportunity and shot both of them before they could shoot back. Of course, the sudden gunfire only attracted unwanted attention. A bullet slugged into the side of the van, and a ping as another bounced off the wing mirror.

“Nigga, just fucking drive!” Lamar yelled. “Fucking drive, man! Get us the fuck outta here!”

“Alright, man, keep ‘em the fuck off us!”

The engine grumbled its way into life as Franklin turned the key. He flinched as he heard a thud and a crack as a bullet flew through the windshield. Time to go. He slammed his foot against the gas pedal, the tires shrieking as the van pulled away.

Fast approaching the end of the road, he spotted car headlights in the wing mirror. That was until said mirror shattered when a bullet slammed into it. Franklin turned the wheel, sending the van skidding around the corner, two purple cars in fast pursuit.

“You dumb motherfucker!” Franklin snapped as he weaved in between the Los Santos traffic. “The fuck you think was gon’ happen with that green bandana!?”

“Oh, yeah, next time I’ll get my crystal ball and tell you when my wardrobe choices gon’ get bullets cracking at out asses,” Lamar rebuked, firing a couple of rounds at the cars behind.

“Couldn’t you at least try to be more subtle!?”

“Bitch, you know subtly ain’t my thing.”

He didn’t respond. Not when a bunch of Ballas hell bent on trying to kill them was his main concern. Franklin gritted his teeth as he sped through a red light, sending the traffic coming the other way skidding to a halt and the cars smashing into each other. Yet the bullets kept flying past the window. Shit, that wasn’t enough. He had no hope of losing them in this old thing.

A blaring horn caught his attention, lower pitched than that of a car. The train. Yes, that might be their ticked out of this mess. Sure, it meant dicing with death with a Goddamn train, but if he can get it just right, they would be home free. In the shattered remains of the mirror, he could see it just behind them.

Franklin stepped on the gas, pedal pushed down as far as it could go. The engine seemed to whine at the excess speed. Lamar was suddenly lurched back, dropping the magazine that he was trying to load into the pistol.

“Are you fucking insane, nigga!?” Lamar asked, noticing the train.

Part of Franklin wanted to admit that he was insane. What sane person would want to play to chicken with a train? He heard the horn blare again as the van hurtled ever closer to the next crossing point where the barriers were beginning to drop.

He glanced through the shattered mirror again, watching the train grow in the glass fragments. Now or never. He could hear his thudding heart in his ears. His breathing stilled. A voice in his head screamed at him. _The hell are you doing_!?

Foot still on the gas, he turned the van through the crossing point, bursting through the barrier. The train’s horn blared, unbearably loud as if he was stood right next to it.

God, he was a fucking idiot. What if he mistimed it by a second? Well, it was too late to turn back now. No choice but the just keep going.

The van smashed through the other barrier and sped onto the road. Franklin released his breath, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead.

Maybe there was something watching over him. That, or he was the luckiest bastard in Los Santos.

Barely a second later, there was a loud thud, followed by a crunching sound. Hitting the brake, Franklin let the van skid to a stop on the other side of the track. He looked out of the window, only to find that one of the Ballas’ cars had ploughed directly into the train, leaving it nothing more than a purple, crumpled mess.

The other car was forced to stop. Franklin could hear the barrage of ‘fuck yous’ from the gangsters inside. Not that he cared. He was just relieved that he and Lamar didn’t end up as human smoothies like the Ballas in the first car. Instead, he started up the engine again and drove off before the other Ballas had a chance to follow them.

“A’ight, I droppin’ yo ass back at your crib,” Franklin said, slowing down the van’s speed.

“You fucking crazy,” Lamar retorted, sounding breathless.

“Yeah. I only sendin’ you back for you to change yo’ motherfucking drawers, homie. Maybe you should start wearin’ them adult diapers.”

“Bitch, please. I ain’t some fragile lil’ bitch.”

“I don’t know, homie. I think you shit yo self back there.”

Lamar responded with the finger, which only made Franklin laugh. It was always good to know that he could shit Lamar up still whenever he wanted. He turned into Chamberlain Hills, his buddy silent throughout the short drive, except for his heavy breathing. If he hadn’t shit himself, he was definitely on the verge of a heart attack.

Franklin knew that experience had shitted the both of them up. Not that he would admit as much to Lamar. Hell, he had felt calmer in gunfights. At least bullets were better than the possibility of being crushed to death. Bullets were a cleaner way to go.

He pulled up outside Lamar’s house, killing the engine, before getting out. Franklin was all too aware of people passing by, staring at the bullet-ridden van. He took a look over his shoulder at it. To people who didn’t know, it was as if he had driven through a live warzone.

“My fuckin’ ride!” Lamar complained having now seen the damage.

“Eh, I’ll compensate the money, dawg,” Franklin said dismissively as he made his way to his own car that he had parked up earlier. “Just be glad we walked out alive.”

“Shit, that your response to everythin’ now, homie? Throw buncha fifties at it and all yo’ problems solved?”

“Whatever, man. I’ll prob’ly see you round.”

He watched Lamar go into his house, without inviting him in of course. Not that Franklin wanted would have wanted to go inside. Getting some kind of disease from Lamar’s uncleaned crib didn’t sound at all appealing.

Might as well go home, even if he didn’t get what he wanted. With a sigh, Franklin got into his Bravado. He shoved the unused pistol in the glovebox, deciding that it wouldn’t be necessary any more. This time was a disaster. Next time, he vowed to go back with Trevor and, hopefully, Michael was awake or maybe out of the hospital.

Before he could turn on the engine, he heard his phone bleep. Who the hell wanted him now? He pulled it out to have a look. Surprisingly, it was a text from Jimmy. Maybe it was good news. Maybe the kid had news that Michael could be improving.

No, it wasn’t anything like that. Franklin frowned as he read the text. Then he read it again. It made no sense. Well, it did, but not in the context he had in his head.

_Mom got a letter this morning. Like cut out words from magazines shit. Don’t kno who sent it but they threatened to kill dad. Fucked up shit._

Threatening letters? Slightly exasperated, Franklin let his head drop back. That was not the Ballas way, he knew that much. He was almost certain that they were too illiterate to read and write, let alone send letters. If it was a Ballas threat, it would be more along the lines of them shooting up the house. In all his experience with the gang, Franklin knew them to be direct than sending anonymous threatening letters. They liked to leave their mark.

He let out a sigh. After all that, and he was likely chasing the wrong target. This shit was making less and less sense. Firing three shots into somebody was their typical gang initiation, especially if they targeted someone who had pissed off the gang. That factor screamed Ballas.

But, no matter what, they would never send letters to a victim’s family. Why would they care about someone’s family?

“God fuckin’ dammit,” Franklin muttered, firing up the engine.

The radio crackled into life, the Weazel News jingle playing on the radio. He gave an exasperated sigh, half expecting a breaking news report of shots fired on Grove Street. Or a car had driven into the train. Great, attention he could really do without right now.

_“Much beloved film director Jerry White announces plans for a new movie he says will astound audiences. Is climate change real? Jock Cranley says it’s a hoax. And the White Angels promise to deliver action on gang violence in South Central.”_

Nothing of interest, then. Franklin gave a small sigh of relief that there had been no reports of shootings in Ballas territory. Maybe apart from those white supremacist fuckers threatening to take action. It was almost funny to picture. A small group of white skinheads trying to scare established gangs. It would be like a bug trying to stand up to an elephant.

He switched to a different channel, driving back to Vinewood Hills to the sounds of Dr Dre. All he had to do was keep his head down for a while. The Ballas would move on to something else eventually.

 

 ***

 

Final bomb to go. Deciding to rig the hangar, Trevor deduced that the last sticky bomb should go under the Marabunta plane that had been so neatly taxied inside. From the peek through the windows earlier, he knew that the plane was full of cocaine and weaponry. As soon as it was fixated in place, he slipped out from underneath and made his way out of the hangar.

Chef had been keeping watch outside, rifle in his arms. They couldn’t afford to stop and chat, Trevor marching away from the airfield to go back to the truck. It had just gone past midnight, according to his watch, so the Marabunta couldn’t be far away by now. The most logical plan would be to smuggle the illicit goods under the cover of night. After all, that was largely how Trevor Philips Industries operated. Fewer cops, fewer snitches by dark.

“T, you sure this won’t just piss off the Mexicans in the city?” Chef questioned, following Trevor to the bushes where the truck was hidden behind.

“For the last time, Chef, these pricks are from _Salvador_ ,” Trevor grumbled. “I told you, Ron calls everybody south of the border Mexican without thinking there’s a whole ‘nother continent down there.”

“Right. This ain’t gonna make ‘em retaliate, is it? ’Cause the last thing I want is a bunch of _Salvadorians_ looking to blow up my cookhouse.”

Before he could answer, Trevor heard his phone bleep. Whoever that was would have to wait. He quickly plucked his cell from his pocket, seeing that he had received a text from Jimmy. Whatever he had to say was not his top priority. He needed his airfield back and couldn’t risk his cover being blown by a bleeping cell. He switched it off and shoved it back into his pocket.

“They already signed their death warrants when they tried to kill my snake of a friend,” he snarled. “Gonna be hard to retaliate when they’ve got bullets in their heads.”

Wasting no time, Trevor grabbed a rifle from the back of the truck and loaded it with a full magazine before grabbing another few magazines should he need them. He crouched beneath it before poking his head around to watch the road. At this time of night, it was practically dead. Apart from the odd swerving set of headlights of a car obviously being driven by some tweaked out meth-head.

In the distance, approaching rapidly, were three sets of headlights all in a row. These three didn’t swerve around and drove in a line as they approached the runway. Trevor watched them for a moment, waiting to see if they would turn off the road. They didn’t. They remained in formation as they approached the airfield.

“This is them,” Trevor said to Chef, crouched down on the other side of the truck.

Chef remained quiet, looking around the side of the truck. By the look of it, this seemed to be a standard drug run. They wouldn’t exactly need an army to do that. If that was the case, Trevor didn’t expect any more Marabunta to be turning up after this bunch. Most of their operations were in the city.

The three black SUVs turned to drive along the runway. Trevor and Chef ducked behind the truck as they passed by. One after another, they passed the hangar and parked up at the end of the landing strip. His fingers tightened around the rifle in his hands, itching to pull the trigger and start picking each of these bastards off, one by one. But he knew he had to wait, if he wanted to be efficient.

From the little he could see, the group from the back car had stepped out and were approaching the hangar. All were armed, carrying their assault rifles. Carefully putting his own gun down for a moment, Trevor pulled out the detonator from his pocket. His thumb hovered over the button, his eyes fixated on the four Marabunta making their way to the plane in the hangar. If he could take them out in one swoop, it was four less he had to worry about.

There were two beside the plane, ready to enter it. The other two remained outside the hangar, no doubt as the lookouts. Shitty lookouts, to be more precise, since they had no idea that what they were looking out for was less than fifty yards from them.

His thumb pressed down on the button.

Trevor didn’t so much as hear the explosion. He fucking _felt_ it. The earth tremored beneath his feet, vibrations rippling through his body as the shock wave passed. For a split second, it was as if his hearing had gone. There was no boom, just something that felt like a minor earthquake. The fireball lit up the night in an orange hue, the blazing fire roaring and crackling in the remnants of the hangar.

Through his ringing ears, he could make out the other gangsters screaming at each other in Spanish. A gunshot rang out in the air. He glanced around the truck to see the Marabunta scrambling to their cars for weaponry, the smarter ones having already pulled out their pistols. There were at least six on that airfield.

“How you like that, you motherfuckers!” Trevor barked at them, shouldering the rifle.

A bullet whizzed past his ear, inches away from his head. Not that Trevor cared about that as his finger squeezed the trigger, the gun firing as it kicked back into his shoulder. He ducked to avoid a round, immediately spotting the shooter. A rather cocky little prick, shouting what sounded like insults at him as he stood on his own in front of the still burning hangar.

Trevor raised the rifle, aiming at that one little fucker. He pulled the trigger and the _ese_ instantly fell back as the bullet slammed into his head.

“Thought I wouldn’t retaliate when you tried to kill my friend, huh!?” Trevor yelled out to the remaining four. Three as Chef downed one of them in a hail of bullets.

“Fuck you, _ese_!” one of them shouted back. “You kill our _eses_ first!”

He growled and shot that one. Two rounds through the chest, and he fell back dead. That left two, who were getting desperate enough to resort to the old spray n’ pray tactic. Bullets flew everywhere, most going nowhere near the intended targets as they buried themselves into the ground.

Oh, this should be easy enough. Trevor kept his head down until the bullets stopped flying overhead, waiting for them to reload their weapons. He aimed the rifle around the truck, firing several rounds into the final two Marabunta. They fell back, the one on the right clutching his stomach.

Takeover complete, Trevor shouldered the rifle and stepped out from behind his truck. In the orange glow, he could make out several bullet holes in the body and the smashed windshield. Fuckers; they damn near destroyed his beloved Bodhi with their careless shooting. Didn’t they learn how to aim when they learned to shoot?

“T, I think there’s one still alive,” Chef said from somewhere behind him.

He turned around, seeing Chef pointing over at one of the gangsters on the ground by the hangar. Frowning, Trevor turned his attention to where Chef was pointing to.

The gangster in question was writhing on the ground, still clutching his stomach. He groaned every so often, the only sound cutting through the silence and crackling fire. Trevor jogged over to the airfield, Chef hot on his heels.

Indeed, this one was just about alive. Aside from the groans, he would pitifully whine in agony. As Trevor approached, he noticed that there were no other injuries aside from the bullet in his stomach, covered by the gangster’s hands. He also didn’t look very old, probably early twenties. There were no signs of aging wrinkles or crow’s feet. Just a kid, really.

Still, a kid who tried to kill him.

“Eh, _ese_ ,” Trevor said, nudging the kid with his boot. “Look at me.”

The kid groaned. But he complied, glaring up at him. “F-f-fuck you…” he stuttered. There was no bite in his tone.

“Oh, well that’s not very fuckin’ nice, is it? I’m here to tell you it’s your lucky day.”

Wisely, the kid said nothing. He raised his head, brows furrowed in confusion. His eyes darted from Trevor, then to Chef, then back to Trevor. His mouth dropped a little, but no words slipped out. Not even a slight sound of a groan.

“Come on, big boy,” Trevor said, bending down to drag the kid up to his feet. He screamed in pain, complaining about the wound in his abdomen. As soon as he was up, his hand returned to his stomach wound. “Now, all we gonna do is ask you some questions and all I want you to do is answer ‘em.”

“I-I on the bottom o-of the chain,” the kid sputtered. “I know fuck all!”

“Welp, guess we’ll see just how much you know about your gang operations in ten minutes. Get your ass in the fucking truck.”

He watched the kid begin to limp the long walk to the truck for a moment. Then he gave an irritated sigh. This shit was going to take forever. Chef provided some motivation by jabbing the barrel of his rifle into the kid’s back, making him limp faster. Still going to take some time.

Trevor pulled out his phone again, turning it back on. The text he had received earlier was the first thing to pop up on the shattered screen. Maybe Jimmy had something about Michael’s condition or something.

His eyes flicked up momentarily to watch the kid, still limping and Chef still behind him with the rifle. He was guessing that Jimmy had some kind of urgent news about his father. Why else would he get into contact?

“Hey!” Trevor shouted. “Stay where you are!”

Both the kid and Chef turned around, puzzled. But they did as they were told and stopped dead in their tracks. The kid still had his hand over the bullet wound looking like he was about to keel over at any moment.

If that kid was desperate to live, he better start praying that the text delivered good news. However, if Michael had died suddenly, there was no point in questioning the little fucker any further. They had got what they wanted. They got their revenge by murdering his best friend. One kid wouldn’t even things out in Trevor’s mind, but one dead Marabunta was as good as another.

He tapped the text icon, the phone bringing up the message.

_Uncle T. Mom received a letter this morning from the suspected shooter. I think they still want dad dead. Don’t kno if u kno who sent it. Jimmy._

Not enough information. His finger tapped reply and typed out a message. Every so often, Trevor paused to glance up at the now shaking Marabunta kid.

_Wat kind of letter? How ws it written? And hows ur dad?_

He tapped send and turned his head up to glare at the kid, still stood there shaking like a Goddamn leaf in fall. Then he looked down at his watch. Half past midnight. His phone buzzed again, with Jimmy having already replied. These kids were fucking fast with their thumbs.

_Like words cut out of magazines and stuck on paper. Delivered in envelope. Dads still OK but no change._

Trevor looked up from his phone again, fixing the kid with a steely eyed glare. Part of him wanted to shoot the little fucker on sight. But he needed to refrain himself.

“Get. In. The. Fucking. Truck.” Trevor growled between harsh breaths. “Right fucking now!”

That made the kid move. With Chef’s rifle pressed into his back, he scurried over to the truck like a good little boy.


End file.
